To the Kitchens
by sillysillypanda
Summary: Revised because I couldn't read the first chapter without cringing. Completed on Valentine's Day to fill all your fluffy Scorpius/Rose needs. Set in their sixth year in Hogwarts. Because the most magical moments in Hogwarts don't happen in the classrooms.
1. Chapter 1

Rose Weasley is many things:

She is bright, and a fast learner, always the first in their year to successfully transfigure a teacup into a rat, or to brew a particularly nasty potion.

She is loud, and witty, and loves arguing in the Slytherin common room, hands on her hips and red-brown hair flying wild, freckles standing out more than ever against her fair skin, pale blue eyes flashing with something like anger and something like amusement.

She is midnight explorations of the school- especially the forbidden bits!- beneath the cover of Al's cloak and by the light of Scorpius's Hand of Glory.

She is subtle snarky comments during class time, a ghost of a smirk lingering on her lips as she watches Al and Scor try hard not to choke on their smothered laughter. The ghost of a smirk turns into a full blown grin when her two best friends invariably fail to avoid the professor's notice, and fluster and bluster their way through the interrogation as to what exactly is so amusing, Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy.

She is the broomstick flying far too fast, as she steers solely with her knees, using both arms to swing her Beater bat with more strength than anyone would think such a small frame could possess, absolutely smashing the bludger straight at the Gryffindor seeker (James and Lily will get her for that later, she knows, but right now she is too high on adrenaline to care), and she is shrieks of excitement and crows of triumph as she and Scor- clutching the runaway snitch- and the rest of the Slytherin team embrace midair during their victory lap around the Quidditch pitch.

She is the face turned away, eyes hidden by her mess of hair as she absolutely refuses to cry, and finds to her dismay that willpower sometimes isn't enough; she is the two small hands pummeling everyone in her path, trying to push away sympathetic murmurs and staring eyes as she hides in her fortress built of books, and only emerges, frosty as a Snow Queen, when she is good and ready, and not an instant before .

She is thorns and bramble and rough and tumble and piercing blue eyes that are always two steps ahead of anyone else in the room. She's a lot of things.

But Rosie is nothing if not logical. Her mind is quick, and sharp, and she analyzes and comprehends more than most people ever manage to see at all. She is careful contemplation of all possibilities and objective weighing of pros and cons and paths of action. She is a Slytherin after all: coolly calculating, and possessing the rare talent to take a step back from the situation, to consider how to best turn it to her advantage, to achieve her goals. Clever and resourceful and stubborn as mule, with a certain pointed disregard for the rules, that's Rosie.

So it really shouldn't surprise anyone, least of all Al, who has known her the longest, and Scor, who arguably knows her the best, that Rose Ariana Weasley is a fan of lists. Every major decision of her life to date – what classes to sign up for at the end of second year; whether or not to spend a term abroad at Beauxbatons or Durmstrang during their fourth year; what present to ask for as a reward for being named Slytherin prefect alongside Al; what career to aim for and which NEWTs to pursue; whether or not to transfigure all of Uncle Neville's mimbus mimbletonia into miniature Whomping Willows and levitate them into James and Freddie's dormitory in Gryffindor tower while they slept- had come with an obligatory list of reasons why or why not, pros and cons.

And really, this could potentially be the biggest, most important, life changing decision of her life. So a list it is. It is sitting on her desk in her dormitory, the one the boys can't enter, thank sweet Salazar, because sometimes a girl needs her privacy, thank you very much. Elle Zabini, Daisy Flint, and Rebecca Nott know better by now- they have been dorming together for almost six years, after all- than to touch Rose's desk. She has all kinds of enchantments to discourage nosy busybodies, and none of them are pleasant. Elle still hasn't quite forgiven her for hex back in second year that Vanished all the hair on her head, but made the hair on her arms grow at a ridiculous rate. Even if someone were to look at The List (as she has taken to calling it in her mind), all they would see is a sketch of the view from the dormitory window. She is a pro at concealing charms; The List is only legible to her eyes.

So Rose is a teensy bit paranoid. But if anyone were to discover The List, it would be exceeding embarrassing and would put her in a compromising situation. And Rose, like every good Slytherin, is keen to avoid compromising situations at any cost. So paranoia it is.

She sighs, and pushes her wild hair out of her eyes, and rereads The List for the umpteenth time, quill hovering over the parchment to add anything she may have missed.

_Reasons why I cannot fall in love with Scor._

_1. Dad will drop dead of a heart attack when he finds out, and he will promptly turn into a ghost haunting the halls of Hogwarts until we break up. And he'll have to find out eventually; if I don't tell him, Hugo will. If Hugo doesn't tell him, James will. If James doesn't tell him... well, that's a moot point. There's no way James can keep something like this to himself. Even if, by some act of God, James doesn't tell him, I have a whole list of male cousins who will. _

_2. Scor's father. I've never met Mr. Malfoy, not exactly (I've seen him before. I've hear Dad hiss his name and Mum roll her eyes. I've never **talked**to him, or been introduced, or anything), but from how Scor describes him, he's a lot like Dad: proud, and blustering, and terribly, terribly old fashioned. And Scor loves him as much as I love Dad. I'm scared (I'm not a Gryffindor, there's nothing wrong with admitting fear) that Mr. Malfoy won't approve of me. Deep down, Scor wants his approval. By extension, I want his approval too. What if he can't see past my name and my face? _

_3. He's my best friend, aside from Al, and Al doesn't really count because he's my cousin and is required to love me (case and point: despite everything, I still love James). I like the dynamic of our relationship right now: teasing, and taunting and competing and being best friends. If I let myself fall in love, that will change. And there will be no turning back. Is it worth risking something so precious for something so unsure? _

_4. Al. I don't want to put him in an awkward position, being a third wheel (provided that Scor reciprocates my feelings, of course), but isn't that the natural course of things if I fall for Scorpius? Al will never really forgive me, and the last thing anyone on this earth wants is an unforgiving Albus Potter._

_5. All the damn drama and gossip that will trail any relationship between us for the rest of our lives. It's hard enough just being friends; all those silly reporters for Witches Weekly trying to subtly eavesdrop on us at Hogsmeade, all the cameras pointing when we're spotted at Diagon Alley together. "Starcrossed Lovers: Weasley and Malfoy Edition." Ick. How petty can some people get? I'd like to be able to walk into a shop without seeing badly taken photos of my face plastered on tabloids. _

_6. We wouldn't last, and is it worth it to risk so much for something so temporary? Statistically speaking, it's only a matter of time (the average duration of a relationship at Hogwarts is approximately 4.6 months. And that's excluding all "relationships" that last less than 24 hours because of love potions and what not) before we break up. And that average might be too high for us because, well, because he's Scor and I'm Rose and that is that. He is ice and I am fire, and would that work? It works when we're friends, because we balance each other out, and we are both mature enough to respect each other's opposing views, but will it continue to work if I look at him as more than a friend, or would we shatter apart?  
>From what I know about me, and what I know about him, we would shatter.<em>

_7. His eyes, and the way that they already make me lose my train of thought, and I'm not even really in love with him yet. If I fall, will I be always reduced to a flustering, bumbling fool around him, all blushes (I am hideous when I blush. It clashes with my hair) and stuttering and nonsense? I sure as hell don't want that._

_8. The fact that practically every girl in Hogwarts has a crush on Scorpius. It's overdone and bad for his ego; the very last thing he needs is for me to regress into being one of 'those girls.' I don't know if love makes you blind to a person's faults, because Scor is not perfect, not by a long shot, and he needs me to remind him of that fact. Often. Will I be able to do that with any semblance of authority and without being ridiculously hypocritical if I fall for him too?_

_9. Falling for your best friend, or for the "forbidden love" is so damn cliché. I'm not a cliché. I am anything but a cliché, by Merlin's pants. I'm complicated, damn it, and I refuse to be confined into some age old love story motif. How typical. I am anything but typical. _

_10. He doesn't like me back, anyway. He sees me as a best friend and a friendly rival, practically as a kid sister or a cousin. Totally platonic. So it would be hopeless to hope, right? Why waste my time?_

Thank Godric her handwriting is miniscule, else she never would have fit all that on one roll of parchment. She nods a little bit, mostly satisfied with her list, and turns over a new role of parchment and continues scribbling away.

_Reasons To Love the Aforementioned SHM_

_1. The way that he always reverts to calling me "Weasley" during the week of exams, and the way that he says it with a half grin on his face, like he's trying not to laugh. I call him "Malfoy" during that week, just so that everyone knows that we are competing, and there is no way in hell that he's going to beat me on any test. I love the way that having him as a rival makes me work all the harder and do all the better. He pulls out my potential, I know, and I love him for it. He's usually right behind me in year rankings; he's the only one who has ever tied with me on an exam (Defense Against the Dark Arts, Third Year), after all. There is no way in bloody hell I'm giving him a chance to do it again._

_2. The fact that he is the only one who will stay to listen when I start to rant on something interesting or thought provoking that I've read. Al will stay, but he normally falls asleep, or pretends to, just as I'm getting to the good part. Scor listens, really listens, to everything I say; it's gotten to the point where he asks me to hold off continuing the rant until he's checked out the book from the library as well, so we can have an actual discussion and not just a lecture. I love having someone to talk to about deep things or obscure research, and I love that I don't feel like I'm burdening him, forcing his interest, at all. He is interested too, and we both enjoy our late night discussions in the kitchens, over some Butterbeer, about conserving the delicate habitat of the demiguise, or the moral and ethical implications of the vanishing charm._

_3. The fact that he didn't tease me when he found out my boggart was a mirror. Not that I'm afraid of silvered glass: I'm just terrified that I am no more than the girl I see in my reflection. I'm scared stiff at the thought that that's all other people see me as- a miniature of my mother, my father. The smart girl. The heroes' child. I'm more than that. I've got to be. Scor didn't laugh or tease (Al did. A little. And he was entitled to it, because no one understands my fear better than Al does) or belittle my fear, tell me that I was being silly to think that. He just nodded silently, and accepted it, and I loved him for that._

_4. The way he spent his entire stay at the Burrow, the summer after our third year, in Grandpa Arthur's shed, tinkering with all the Muggle toys and knick-knacks. He even chased Mum down, to have her explain "ecklectricity" and "computterers" to him, and he begged her and Dad to teach him how to operate a Muggle car. He promptly crashed into Grandmother Molly's hedge, scaring all the gnomes. He was so flustered and embarrassed and sheepish when he got out of the car, it was so adorable. (that was the first time I thought of Scor in terms of "cute" or "handsome" or "attractive." My exact thought, I believe, was "Oh, that's why all those girls at school think he's cute. Maybe they're not completely psychotic.")_

_5. The way he let me cry on his shoulder when Hugo and I got the news that Nana, Mother's mum, had passed away. He even went to the funeral with us, and though he was thoroughly bewildered by the Muggle ceremonies, and even if I could tell he was bursting with a thousand questions to ask, he had the good sense and decency and kindness to keep his mouth shut and let me cry. And he didn't let go of my hand once._

_6. The way we argue in front of everybody in the common room, at least once a week, hurling insults and hexes across the green chaise lounges, and the way everyone is scared silly, thinking that we might actually mean what we're saying. _

_7. The way that he has never, ever, gone easily on me when we play wizard's chess, or during Quidditch practice, or ever. He has never once tried to keep me from doing something I want to, despite how dangerous it might become (a prime example: the way we snuck into the Forbidden Forest during fifth year, just to see if we could find a unicorn. Or how he and Al and I worked all through fourth year to become unregistered animagi, just so we could say we discovered how when we were even younger than Al's late grandfather had been). He has never given me some kind of crap excuse like "It's too dangerous" or "But you're a girl" or "I want to keep you safe, protect you." Instead, Scor has always been there, right next to me, on whatever adventure we might embark on and in whatever trouble we may land ourselves into. Screw chivalry. I'm not some damsel in distress, and Scor respects that. I love that, love that he treats me as his equal in everything, that he relies on me, and that I know I can rely on him._

_8. The way that he always knows exactly how to make me laugh after I've had a crap day, and where to look for me when no one else can find me (usually when I'm being passive-aggressive and hiding because I don't want to see people, but I want to be cared about enough to be looked for), and how to talk to me to draw me out from my books. Before Scor, Al was the only one who could do that, and I used to worry about what I would do when we grew up, because Al would have some wife and wouldn't have time to pacify his favorite cousin whenever she worked herself into a tizzy fit. Scor makes all those fears disappear._

_9. The way that he always manages to charm our way out of detentions. That's real magic, only without the spells and the wandwork, just normal English and his deep sweet voice and big mist-gray eyes... even I find myself entranced, sometimes, and Al has to pull me out of it so I can add my logic to back up his magic words, or so Al and I can finish raiding the kitchens or setting up our next elaborate prank. Only two of us fit under the cloak nowadays, so Scor always volunteers to be the decoy. He is so calm and collected and charming under pressure, that it kills me. _

_10. The way that the tips of his ears turn red when he's embarrassed, and the way he bites his bottom lip when he's thinking really hard, and how his head tilts a bit to the left when he's listening, and how he cups his hands and rests his chin upon them when he's bored, and how he bites his nails when he's nervous, and dances around like a loonie on his tiptoes when he's excited, how the right corner of his mouth goes just a bit higher than the left when he smiles for real, not that stiff polite fake smile, or the arrogant smirk he's so good at, and how when he's really, really laughing, he throws his entire head back, elongating the line of his throat. The way that he gestures wildly when he's excited or passionate, how he always falls asleep during astronomy class so Al has to poke him awake again, how he's the only one who can stomach Hagrid's rock cakes. Every little damn detail about him, really. Damn._

She bites the end of her quill and sighs. It is half past midnight, and she has ten valid points on each list.

So the question remains: To love Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, or not to love Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy?

Perhaps she will be able to think better in the kitchens. She usually thinks more clearly there: it reminds her of her mother's kitchen (only with house elves instead of Hermione), where she used to do her homework at the kitchen table when she was small and went to a Muggle elementary school and the hardest question she had to solve involved long division, not blonde haired boys with laughing grey eyes a girl can just melt into... That, and the elves will be eager to fix her a feast, and all this thinking makes a girl hungry.

She rolls up her lists, tucks them under her arm, and heads out to the kitchen. She's not using the cloak- that's with Al right now, and right now she doesn't want to wake the boys and have to explain where she's going and why- but there is more than one way to be invisible.

She heads to the kitchen, to think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JKR, not me.**

Scorpius is lying on his bed, staring up at the deep green canopy above his head. Well, that's not exactly accurate; he had charmed the velvet black, with tiny flickering stars that moved across it in perfect time with the real night sky. A clever bit of wand work, that; it had taken him the better part of second year to figure out the charm on the Great Hall ceiling, and to modify it to only show the clear night sky. If anybody asked, it was because he was absolutely abysmal at a astronomy (really, he was. It was the only subject he has scored less than an E on on his OWLS, mainly because he slept through most of Professor Cassiopeia's lectures) and he was trying to learn it subconsciously through constant reinforcement and subliminal messages. The real reason, of course, he hadn't told anyone, not even Al.

It was because Rose loved star gazing; she had taken it upon herself to tutor him in Astronomy back when they were first years, and she had gotten special permission from Professor Cassie to use the Astronomy Tower at midnight to do so. It was during those tutoring sessions that Scor fell in love with her. She was brash and bossy and well intentioned, if rather intimidating. Beautiful, too, trying to push her wild curly hair out of her face, and her blue eyes shining as she stared up at the stars. She pointed out all the Muggle constellations as well as the wizarding ones he was required to know, and she told these amazing stories about each constellation, how seven sisters danced their ways into the stars, how a proud hunter had fallen in love with a goddess sworn to never love a man, and how when he died, she had placed him in the stars. He and Rose even made up their own constellations, like the Wonky Butterbeer Bottle and Herbert, the Obese Hungarian Horntail, and equally silly stories to explain them.

His marks in Astronomy didn't improve much, despite Rose's best efforts; Scor hadn't exactly been able to concentrate on the distant stars much.

The charm on his canopy was to commemorate his falling in love with her, to remind him of why he had fallen in love with the ginger girl who had reached out to help someone practically the entire school couldn't wait to see fail.

That had all been five years ago; they were sixth-years now, and he was still hopeless in love with her. And she was as oblivious as she had been as a twelve year old.

Scorpius lets out a big sigh.

"What's up?" Al is sitting cross legged on the floor, organizing his chocolate frog card collection around him.

"Nothing," Scor lies, "Just thinking about how I actually kinda miss astronomy class."

"You mean, how you missed sitting behind Rose and being able to blatantly stare at her when she stargazed without people noticing because it was too dark," Al replies idly, placing cards in piles that meant nothing to anyone but himself.

"Wha-what?" Scor was trying for nonchalant, but might have ruined it by falling off his bed in surprise, "I have no idea what you are talking about," he says with as much dignity as he can muster.

"Liar," Al doesn't even have the decency to look up from his stack of Merlin cards, "You've been in love with Rose ever since those astronomy lessons back in first year. You even whipped up that spell that lets us see in the dark so you could stare at her during astronomy lessons, and don't give me some basilisk shit about how it was so we could wander school after hours, we have your Hand of Glory for that. I've just been waiting for you to man up enough to admit that you're crazy for my cousin. But you took too long."

Damn. Al is way too perceptive.

"You're crazy," Scor really does know better than to try to deny it, but sometimes a lost cause is the best kind of cause.

"Crazy right, you mean. She doesn't know yet, in case you're wondering. But she may have a teeny tiny start of a crush on you."

"Crazy wro- wait, she might like me back?"

"Yeah, I have no idea why either. At least it only took her five years."

Scor throws a pillow at Al, and chocolate frog cards go flying everywhere.

"Really, Scor?" Al gives him the stink eye, though he doesn't mean it, and scrambles around the dorm picking up the wayward cards, "I tell you the news you've been waiting to hear for years and years, and you thank me by throwing stuff at me. Some best mate you are."

"Wait. Since when has she liked me back?" Al doesn't reply, so Scorpius sighs and starts helping him pick up his chocolate frog cards. Al answers once they have tracked down and counted all 327 cards in his collection. Twice. Scor settles back down on his canopy bed.

"Probably since you came over during the summer after third year."

"She's liked me back since then, and YOU DIDN'T TELL ME?"

Crash.

That was Scor falling off the bed. Again. He is indignant as he scrambles back onto his perch. So much for his reputation for being cool and collected and charming and detached and flawless. If they weren't best mates, Al would be taking pictures for blackmail and to sell to his fanclub to make a tidy profit.

Scor's lucky he has such a generous best mate, if Al may say so himself.

"Well, she didn't realize that she liked you back, so how could I tell you when she didn't even know yet?"

He has a point, but Scorpius doesn't feel like being logical right now, "When did she realize it?" he manages to choke out around clenched teeth.

"Who knows?" Al shrugs, as he returns to sorting his cards, "Dumbledore's pants, Scor, what do you think I am, a psychic? She's probably in her room, writing up one of those lists of hers about whether or not she should fall in love with you." He snorts at his cousin's naivety. For the smartest witch in their year, Rose could be awfully dumb sometimes.

Scor's face lights up, and Al feels his something like exasperation bubble up in his stomach.

"A list!" Scor yells out, barely managing to not fall off his bed again,"If she's writing a list, that means she's serious. If she's serious, I have a chance!" He punches the air in victory, "D'you reckon I should write a list too, Al?

"About whether or not you should fall for my cousin? Hate to break it to you, mate, but it's a bit late for that."

"Oh, yeah..."

It is all Al can do not to facepalm. Idiots. He is surrounded by lovesick, blithering, bumbling idiots.

Unfortunately, one of those idiots is his favorite cousin, and the other is his best mate and they are in _luuuuurve_. He sighs, takes pity on them, and throws Scor a hint.

"Why don't you write a list just of the reasons why you love her? You know you turn into a blathering fool whenever you try to ask her out, maybe it'll be easier if you write out all your feelings before hand, and then just let her read it."

Scor stares at him for a moment, mouth hanging open. Then he leaps to his feet and starts dancing around on top of his bed.

"Al, you're a genius!"

"I know."

"You should be a Ravenclaw, that's how smart you are."

"I'm smarter than that, actually. That's why I'm in Slytherin. Knowledge for knowledge's sake is dumb. Slytherin is where it's at."

"Blimey, mate, I owe you one!"

"Actually, that makes 937 times that you've said that. Just saying."

"I freaking love you, man!"

"Tell that to Rose. Only leave off the man part."

Scor didn't hear that last bit as he crows in excitement, jumps off the bed, and dashes to his desk to scrummage for a parchment, quill, and inkwell. Al hides his smile behind his fortress of frog cards.

They're lovestruck fools all right. Complete idiots. And he is manipulating them something awful; a Slytherin to the core, the youngest Potter boy is. But they love each other and Al loves them, and that's what matters most. They'll be happy together, Al will see to it.

Some five hours later (it's practically midnight at this point- all the other boys in their dorm are asleep and snoring up a storm), Al is significantly less confident in his abilities to play matchmaker for his two best mates. Scor's list has 7402 bullet points; he only stopped because he ran out of ink, and there is no way Al is squandering the rest of his supply to fuel this obsession. 7402 is plenty.

Al chooses his words carefully, "So, Scor, when exactly do you feel like going out with my cousin? 'Cause she's going to be about 70 before she finishes reading this list to answer you. Narrow it down to, say, the top 10 reasons why you love her."

"Ten?" Scorpius splutters. His eyes are wild, his hair is sticking up almost as badly as Al's does, and his hands and forearms are covered in ink splatters; it is rare that he drops his cool, emotionless facade, and the calculating, capitalistic part of Al is dying to grab a camera and take pictures. "How the bloody hell am I supposed to pick just 10 reasons?"

"Five would be better," Al is merciless, "One for each year you've been in love with her."

"One for each day," Scorpius counters, and Al has to fight down the urge to strangle his best friend.

"I'm kidding!" Scorpius laughs, "I'll do ten. Good enough, oh wise master?"

"Yes," Al is content.

"And while we're on the subject," the slyness in Scor's voice puts Al on guard immediately, "How are things going between you and Longbottom?"

"Uncle Neville is fine, I'm sure. And he's finally forgiven me for the mimbulus mimbletonia prank from last year, I think," Steaming piles of dragon crap, now the tables are turned. "Though I don't see what that has to do with this subject."

"And his lovely daughter?"

"I'm sure Alice is fine too." he is not playing this game, he is not playing this game, he is not...

"Did you write her a list too?"

Al laughs, "No, that kind of thing only works on girls like Rosie and for weirdos like you, Scor. I, unlike you, have a plan on how to ask Alice out which, unlike your plan (which was actually my plan), involves flowers and actual verbal confessions and moonlight rides around the campus on my broom, because I, unlike you, can be mildly romantic on my own."

"And you, unlike me, are complete and utter crap on a broom."

"Shut up."

"Back to the drawing board of Operation Al x Al?"

"I said, shut up, Scor."

Scor shoots him a cheeky grin as he rummages through Al's trunk to find a bottle of ink, "I'll lend you a hand mate, after I finish this list and give it to Rosie. And then I'll owe you one less."

"Whatever," Al yawns, "I'm absolutely exhausted listening to you, go write your list somewhere else, I'm going to bed."

Scor isn't tired at all. "Fine," he chirps, obnoxiously cheerful despite the late hour and the fact that they have double Transfiguration with those dunderheaded Gryffindors first thing tomorrow morning. He practically dances out of the dorm, grabbing Al's invisibility cloak as he goes. To the kitchens, of course. All this writing makes a bloke terribly hungry. Maybe he can get Kreacher to whip up something for him, even if Al (who Kreacher has called "My dear and most noble master" ever since he was sorted into Slytherin) isn't with him, if the house elf is in a good mood.

He heads to the kitchens, to hope


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: As always, if you recognize it, not mine. In this case, JKRowling's. **

Rose tickles the pear with the tip of her quill, and the doorway swings open to the kitchens. She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding; something about the kitchens – the light, the warmth, the smell of fresh bread and Butterbeer, always lifts a weight off her shoulders.

"Miss Rosie!" Bibbles squeaks, "Master did not tell Bibbles you were coming! Bibbles will set another place at once!"

"You don't have to, Bibbles," she says kindly, but it's too late. Not even her mother can stop a house elf who's put her mind to something. A whole horde of them descends on the table, carrying plates of food and tankards of Butterbeer for her, and for...

"Rose?" Drat it all, he would be here right now. She came here to clear her head, and naturally, the one person who can make her lose her train of thought would be here. He's craning his head to look at her, the silvery wisp of Al's cloak draped over the back of his chair, his mouth half-full of some delectable dessert. She wonders vaguely at the ink splatters on the tip of his nose, and the tufts in his usually smooth hair, but is distracted by the fact that she is simultaneously, instinctively trying to smooth down her own robes.

"Hey Scor," she's trying for nonchalant as she slips into the chair across from him. She steals one of the small tarts from the plate in front of him, earning herself an affronted glance, "What'cha writing?"

It's probably just the glow from the kitchen's fireplaces, or the ensuing warmth, but Scor's normally pale cheeks hold a tinge of pink.

"Nothing," he says altogether too quickly, covering the inky words with one equally ink-splattered hand, "What's the scroll for?" he in turn nods towards the parchment rolled up in her arm.

"I asked first!" she's being childish and she knows it and she's relishing every second of it. She reaches across the table to snatch it, but he's too fast (damn Seeker reflexes) and he's on his feet in an instant and holding the paper above his head, out of her reach, laughing.

Idiot. Has he forgotten that he's dealing with the brightest witch in their year? She smirks, and whips out her wand and performs a silent _Accio!_

"No fair!" he yelps, realizing what she's up to, but it's too late; the parchment is safe in her hands. She lets out a dramatic maniacal cackle, but is stopped mid-guffaw by the look on his face.

"Good Godric, Scor," she's concerned now, "You'd think I just snatched a love letter away from you or something." Because that is preposterous. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy is not the type to write love letters. He is too... _too _for that. Detached. Reserved. Above it all. What have you.

"I-" he looks like he's about to say something, but he changes his mind, takes a deep steeling breath, then plops himself back in the chair and grabs a scone. He arches one eyebrow, his signature facial expression thankfully replacing the unnerving uncertainty that had been there before, "Well, what are you waiting for, Weasley? Read it already."

"W-wha?" she's at a loss for words, quite possibly for the first time in her life.

He just looks at her, then pulls out his own wand and lazily summons the parchment nestled in the crook of _her _elbow.

"Hey!" she makes a grab for the hovering papers, but he's quicker. Bastard.

"Fair's fair," he smirks, "You read my list, I'll read yours."

"What makes you say that's a list?" she demands. He snorts, and shoots her a look, not even deigning to respond. He has a point. He knows about her compulsion about list-making.

"Fine, it's a list," she concedes, "But you won't be able to read it anyways."

"Won't I?' he drawls, and taps the charmed parchment with the tip of his wand. She watches the concealment charm slide off the paper like an oiled snake, and is impressed, despite herself.

"Git," she mutters under her breath, but she knows he knows she doesn't mean it. For some reason, despite the pounding in her chest and in her temples, she's remarkably calm. This feels... right. Letting him read The List seems... right.

More to distract herself than anything, she looks down at the parchment in her own two hands, and blinks twice at the title, written at the top in Scorpius's flourish-prone penmanship (she's often teased him about his girly handwriting. That has never discouraged him from making his signature as embellished as possible):

_Ten Reasons I Love Rose Ariana Weasley:_

_Being sound of mind and whole of body, I, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, do assert that I am madly, hopelessly, and quite possibly unconditionally in love with the aforementioned Weasley, for the following reasons (being a sorely abbreviated list, thanks to the interference of our mutual acquaintance Albus)_

_Reason the first: Her hair. There are secrets hidden in the gloriously untameable mass of chaos, I swear. What would it be like, I have oft wondered, to bury my hands (or my nose, or my entire face, or, or, or)in said sweet-smelling explosion of reddish curls? Like floating away on a dandelion cloud, I've equally often concluded. But I begin to ramble, and this is only Reason the First. What was I talking about again?_

_Reason the second: Her hands, which are deceptively delicate-looking. It's all a lie. I've watch her beat the Hufflepuff out of opposing Quidditch teams enough times to know the unaccountable strength in those tiny fists. I have passed many a long hour contemplating what it would be like to hold said hands. Usually, said contemplation ends with the realization that I am too much of a coward to ever try, and should I somehow muster up my nonexistent (thank Salazar) Gryffindor-ish tendencies, my own hands will likely be as swampy as that roped-off patch in the corridors. Not particularly impressive, and I do have a reputation to uphold. (Not that I wouldn't throw all that away in a heartbeat if I thought you would actually let me hold your hand. But that's tangential.) _

_Reason the third: Her mouth. There are many, many things I can say about one Rose Weasley's mouth, all of it admiring and complimentary, but I'll end this entry here, before she pulls out her wand and hexes me five ways to Friday without even bothering to reading the rest of this list. Abbreviating this particular entry will also protect me against self-incrimination, should this list somehow fall into the hands of one her many mangy bloodthirsty man-cousins. (I pray to the powers that be that Al realizes he's not included in that category.)_

_Reason the fourth: Her eyes. Pale blue like cornflowers (I've actually never seen a cornflower, but it sounds poetic, no?). This entry could very easily be filled with the customary cliché similes (shine like the stars, deep as a river, mysterious as the ocean, etc, etc.) and they'd all apply, but it's the undeniable intelligence apparent in her gaze that draws me in and holds me there. Bright and fierce and sharp as lightning. When she looks directly in my eyes, I momentarily lose my grasp of the English language and regress into a bumbling cave-wizard. One would not think that such devolution would be a particularly enjoyable or fulfilling pastime. One would be drastically mistaken._

_Reason the fifth: Her family. Well, that's not quite an accurate header. I do not love Rose because of the mob of Weasleys. Rather, I love Rose when she is surrounded by said Weasleys (as I do at all other times, but... bother, this isn't going as well as I planned). Tough and trash-talking during Quidditch matches (Sweet Salazar, but you have enough cousins to form two complete teams). Giggly and gossipy when she's doing Molly's hair or trying on Dominique's clothes. Sneaking into the kitchen and pilfering sweets behind her grandmother's watchful eyes. Playing Muggle chess with her grandfather, and laughing gently as he exclaims about the ingenuity of having inanimate pieces. Curled up beside her dad when it's late at night and she think no one is looking. She is gentler, rawer, _real-er_ around her family, and I think that's beautiful._

_(It might also interest you to note that I can name not only all of your cousins, aunts, and uncles, I can list them in order of their birth and recite all their birthdays. And I still have all of the dove-grey jumpers your grandmother knitted me. Perhaps this will prevail upon your father to actually hesitate for half an instant before skinning me alive, should he ever be notified of the existence of this list.)_

_Reason the sixth: Her wit. I have gotten in trouble with Professor Chang in Defense class more times than I care to explain to my parents, and I unreservedly blame it all on her. Curse her for being so damn hilarious. She more than holds her own during our bouts of banter, over a game of Wizarding chess (in which she very often trounces me, I'm sorry to add) or during exams week or on the Quidditch pitch. She's the first person I ever met who I haven't completely decimated (by the Malfoy caustic charm and aristocratic drawl) in a verbal sparring match. I'm impressed. And intrigued. Very much so._

_Reason the seventh: Her mischievous streak. Is adorable. And terrifying. Who else but Rosie would think up of and be able to execute something as ambitious as capturing Peeves in an old Firewhiskey bottle and convincing James and Fred that he was a jinn come to grant their every wish? Or be able to even dream up sneaking into the headmistress's office to persuade all the portraits to serenade her non-stop with the Muggle classic "It's a Small World After All"? The slow-spreading, maniacal grin on her face when an idea strikes her is absolutely terrifying, I tell you. But simultaneously absolutely adorable. Like kittens. _

_Reason the eighth: Her competitive side. Plus my competitive side, naturally. Neither of us likes to lose – I think that's really why she ended up in Slytherin, despite what she'll tell you about how her sorting went down. Anything, everything – class rankings, number of chin ups from a hovering broom, Wizarding chess, everything – is a competition with her, and I love it. I flatter myself that she enjoys herself a smidge too._

_She makes me think. Makes me work my arse off – academically, athletically, in every aspect of my life, it feels – to try to just keep up with her. Makes me open up, and actually let myself _feel _things, without worrying about other people's judgment of me. Makes me break down my walls, brick by mental brick. Makes me actually think and care about other people._

_She makes me a better person, and I love her for it. _

_Reason the ninth: Her heart. She has the bravest, biggest heart of any slimy Slytherin I know. I know, I know, I have a heart of gold too, but she inherited _hers_ (as she enjoys informing me) from her mother, not from a bank vault. _

_And she has a point. I've seen her rescue everything from broken-winged fwoopers, to lost first years, to one particularly cynical and aloof boy who no one but her had the courage and kindness to befriend. His heart has belonged to hers ever since she looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand and volunteered to teach him about the stars. (Did I honestly just pen that? I can feel my ancestors turn over in their mausoleum. Oh, what the Helga Hufflepuff. It's not like it's untrue. Don't you dare judge me, Weasley.)_

_Reason the tenth: Her. Everything. Her. Good Godric, I don't have words for it. I don't know words for it. She probably does. She has words for everything – she never shuts up, and I don't ever want her to. I sometimes think I could spend the rest of my life here, in the kitchens, seeing her sit across from me, hair curling wild out of her braid, hands nursing a bottle of Butterbeer, lips sipping at it during these insanely wonderfully earnest conversations we share. In the soft light of the kitchens, her eyes glowing, her voice rising higher and higher, I feel more _**home** _than I ever have before. I don't know how, I don't know why, but when I see her on the train, on in Diagon Alley, for the first time after a long break, I realize it all over again: every time I see her, it feels like a homecoming. And that's the truth. And that is why I'm in love with her. _

* * *

><p>She has one <em>(deceptivelydelicate) <em>hand over her lips, and she's laughing, and she's crying, and this is all absolutely ridiculous. Typical Scor- he's messing her all up, he's the only one who's ever managed to do that, but for some reason, she finds all of a sudden that she doesn't care. She wouldn't have it any other way.

He's finished reading her lists, and is staring at her wordlessly, grey eyes wary and waiting.

"Scor-" she begins, suddenly shy. This is weird. She's never been _shy _around Scor. Then again, she's never had her heart pounding so hard in her throat that she has to swallow three times before managing to get out that single syllable.

"I can do a rebuttal, if you want," he says suddenly, all in an uncharacteristic rush, holding up her Cons list, "Merlin, Rose, I promise I can explain why all these reasons are ridiculous – well, no, not ridiculous, they're well argued and founded in fact and all that- but I can refute them all, I promise. I can-"

She waits for him to trail off.

"Or," she says softly, a (_terrifyinglyadorable) _slow grin spreading slowly across her face, "You could just snog me senseless."

* * *

><p>A loud <em>crack<em>! wakes up Albus Severus Potter.

"Master," a hoarse voice whispers, "My dear and most noble master. Kreacher apologizes for waking Master, but Kreacher has news."

Al blinks blearily, barely making out the hunched form of the elderly house elf in the darkness, "Did they finally-"

"Yes, Master," Al can just imagine the disgust etched on Kreacher's knobbly face, "Very loudly. Very longly. Very lovingly. Very-"

"Thanks, Kreacher," Al cuts him off, because there are certain images of his favorite cousin and best mate that he never needs to picture, if he wants to be able to sleep ever again, "Took them long enough. Mind going to the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw dorms?"

"Kreacher doesn't mind. But why, Master?"

"Because Lily, Dominique, Luce and the Scamanders owe me 59 galleons, 13 sickles, and 8 knuts."

Calculating and supremely capitalistic, the youngest Potter boy is.

**A/N: I love reviews almost as much as Dobby loves socks. *hint, hint* ^.^v**


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